


Lights

by aflockofseagulls



Category: Fables - Willingham, The Wolf Among Us
Genre: Closeted Character, Gay Bigby, Gay Male Character, Gen, Internalized Homophobia, slight cw for one homophobic slur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 11:24:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2650277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aflockofseagulls/pseuds/aflockofseagulls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bigby is so far inside the closet that there doesn't seem to be a way out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lights

New York nights always seem to be cold, and they seem even colder when you're walking alone on the sidewalk at three-thirty in the morning. That awful, weird melancholia sneaks up on you, and before you know it, it's just as cold in as it is out. Your feet feel heavy and you feel like slumping down with your back against the dingy brown ground-level stone of a low-rise, just like any typical bum.

\- - -

It starts the same way every time. Midnight on the dot, marking the beginning of a Sunday. He throws on his coat and pops up the collar - for at least until he's left the building. It's impractical, sure, but it works. His pockets always have the same things in them: a (currently, nearly-emptied) carton of cigarettes, a lighter, and two bills: a $100 and a $20. One bill for cab fare and one for everything else. At this point, he has it almost down to a science; his formula is so foolproof he can account for any extra variables.

His steps leaving the apartment are always soft - as soft as the Big Bad Wolf's can be, anyway, and he does his best not to stomp as he walks down the creaky hallway. It's hard, sure, but most times it doesn't end up too bad. Most times. Occasionally an errant board almost ruins his plans entirely, but if nothing else, his damage control is impeccable. A little levitation never hurt anyone. Once he's at the stairs, he's home free anyway. No one takes the stairs at this time of night - it must be a mundy thing. The elevator was the primary mode of transport for all the Fable denizens of the building, so avoiding that meant avoiding them.

The stairs are empty all the way down most of the time. On the off chance he runs into someone, the exchanges are always (in his eyes) polite and cordial. No one'd walk by him without saying hello, after all. It's always the same thing, a "Hello, Bigby." mumbled under their breath, or a "Evening." said with a forced half smile. He never makes eye contact, and barely manages to mutter anything more than a quick "evening" back. In the rare occurrence that someone decides to actually speak to him, anything from a question about Fabletown's governance to a sly "where are you going this time of night?", he does his best to respond in the gruffest, most disinterested voice he can possibly manage. It's always enough to scare the other party on their way.

After finishing his journey down the stairs, he always goes through a back door. Which back door specifically alternates depending on a number of factors, including activity in the region and his recent usage of the door. Using the same one too many times is the most sure-fire way to have someone notice his patterns. Tonight, he finds himself going out one towards the back right of the building - it exits into a dilapidated alleyway that's connected to the next street over.

To celebrate his entrance into the town, he always lights his first cigarette now. The first wisps of smoke are the best, the initial rush of nicotine satisfying his cravings.

Hailing a cab on the street is always the easiest part. It's deciding where to go next that's harder. He always has the same destination, but uses different proxy locations to get there. Where to tonight - the 24-hour convenience store with the Spanish signs all over it? The movie theater where they found a heroin needle in one of the seats? Maybe even the comedy club where that old Mafioso was assassinated a few years back in broad daylight? Taking a drag from his cigarette, he ponders it. He's got the luxury of time. A moment or two later, he comes to the conclusion that he hasn't been to the convenience store in a while. He needed more cigs anyway, as his box-shaking revealed only one or two more at the most.

The drive is always shorter at night, and the ambiance is better anyway. To go as far as he's going now would take 30 minutes plus in the heavy traffic of the day, but the night drive takes no more than 15 at the most. The time passes slowly as he stares out the window, the soft foreign rock droning quietly from the driver's beat-up old radio. His eyes lose their focus for a moment, the sharp lights of the city around him turning to rounded balls of light as he blinks a few times, readjusting himself.

The cab pulls to a stop, and the fare counter glows piercingly red in the late night darkness. $15.78. He hands the driver the $20 from his pocket, only slightly tattered, and tells him to keep the change as he hops out of the car. Charity wasn't something he practiced often, but it was nice for his ego. In front of him, there it was - the ugly off-white glow of the florescent light beams out onto the concrete. The sign above the store reads "24 HOUR CONVENIENCE," bordered by a sign that stretches to the ground listing the wares available for sale: "CIGARETTES, ALCOHOL, SNACKS, DRINKS, NEWS," you get the idea. There was some more stuff, but it was all in Spanish, a language he never really tried to learn. The rolling Rs thing had always scared him off.

The kids behind the counter always looked scared of him as they rung him up. What, did they think he was gonna rob 'em or something? If these kids knew he'd probably save them from a robber if he ever got the chance, maybe they'd show him a bit more respect. His purchase today was the same as usual, a pack of the cheapest cigs money would buy - good ol' Huff & Puff brand. The things tasted like shit, but it was better that they did. If you were going to smoke, why not go all the way and do it with a cigarette that's almost entirely poison? It's not like the things could hurt his lungs at all. Mundies'd be dead in a few years if they smoked these things like he did. The bell above the door rings as he exits just as quickly as he came, emerging back into the cool, dark night. It takes him a moment to get his eyes adjusted to the change in light level, but once he does he begins on the path to his real destination.

He felt most comfortable walking now, when there were few mundies out. The ones that were never seemed to be up to any good, but even they knew not to mess with him. The occasional few that did test his patience were taken care of easily and away from any witnesses. He only did that kind of thing in the more deserted areas, though - his destination was in a slightly more nightlife-oriented part of town, and there wasn't anywhere there where he could discreetly rip someone's face off and smash their skull against the pavement without someone else seeing.

The darkened store windows in the buildings next to him gradually turn into the large neon signs that advertising clubs of all sorts. "PEEP SHOW," some read, while others were more explicit about what they were selling - "GIRLS," one simply read, putting all of its cards on the table from the get-go. As appealing as those shows were, they wasn't the reason he was there tonight. And, actually - come to think of it, they weren't that appealing at all. He didn't know why he thought that in the first place.

After a total half-hour of walking, he finally arrives at where he's been trying to go. The outside of the building isn't particularly impressive, but it isn't meant to be. The door swings open quickly, and he pays the man at the front a $20 he got from the change from the Huff & Puffs. The burly man, dressed smartly in a black tuxedo, moves and opens the door next to both of them, and Bigby slips in quickly. Inside is a large, dark room - it's furnished in typical tacky and cheap nightclub style, with the color theme of choice being black and red. There are a lot of people there, all men, but the similarities end at that. Some are skinny as twigs, some are so large their stomachs hang out of their shirts. Some have clean-shaven faces, some have beards that would rival the Woodsman's. Men of all races stand around, talking amongst each other. Well, all races except one - Fable.

He was sure he was the only Fable among the crowd, not that was a bad thing. In fact, he almost preferred it that way, as much as one can prefer isolation and crushing loneliness. None of that mattered, though, as he made his way to the counter of the bar. To start, he gets a bourbon on the rocks - something he plows through in only a few sips. He orders a beer to supplement it, and, upon receiving it, makes his way to the far wall of the club. There he stands, leaning against the dingy wall and quietly sipping his drink. He doesn't look at anyone, nor does anyone look at him. His scowl is enough to turn away even the most friendly (and drunk) of patrons.

Suddenly, the lights on the stage in the center of the room light up, announcing the arrival of tonight's guest. Out he comes from the side entrance, a man no older than 25 in nothing but tight underwear. His body is toned and fit, like that of a model or a bodybuilder-in-training. His blond hair is short and well-kept, and his smile beams a glowing image of the boy next door. Taking his place on stage, he begins to perform against the pole that he shares the stage with.

His routine starts slow, moving gracefully and showing off his numerous pleasing-to-the-eye features. Bigby sips his beer, staring at the man dancing in front of him. He never looks away, not once, the only interruptions being the flashing of his eyelids. The man on stage moves into the next part of his show, performing flashier moves with the assistance of the pole. He swings, rotates, flips, and bends, showing off the flexibility of his powerful body. The way his muscles contort and bend, and how the sweat glistens softly on his perfect skin.

The pictures float into his mind naturally. He goes to the edge of the stage, watching from a better vantage point. Now that he's gotten a better look at the pure beauty of the man up there, he gives him a few of the crumpled dollars from his trench coat pocket. The man winks back at him and seems to dedicate one of his moves to the man who's just been so generous. After the show ends, he pays a visit to the man's room, the two exchanging small talk. Bigby doesn't give his name, but the dancer's name is -----. They cut to the chase and begin to kiss passionately, Bigby's tongue straddling the inside of the dancer's mouth, his hands massaging the finely chiseled muscles that make up the dancer's body. As he moves his head to prepare for another burst of kissing, he realizes.

As soon as it has begun, the show is over. The lights have dimmed, and the stage is being cleared for the next performer. The schedule on the wall says something about a drag performance; the dancing alone was enough for him. Finishing his beer with a last swig, he tosses it in one of the garbage bins against the wall and makes his way towards the exit. $20 for ten minutes wasn't that good of a deal, but it was better than nothing.

He's back in the cold night air again. The streets have thinned out even more, and there's only a few people on them now. He starts walking in the opposite direction from which he came, travelling even further from Fabletown. At some point, he's not even controlling his legs anymore - they're just going where they feel like going, turning arbitrarily, and moving towards a more deserted part of town. And finally, he reaches one, the houses occasionally boarded up and the shop windows covered in heavy chains. Turning into an alley, he finally stops to think about what he's been avoiding.

His hand is almost shaking as he curls it into a fist. No matter how hard he presses them down, they always come back up. It made him fucking sick. He didn't want it. He hated it. He fucking hated it. He hated it more than anything, but no matter how hard he tried, it never went away.

He pounds his fist against the wall, head hung down. The soft flesh thuds against the red brick, releasing a small spray of dust. He didn't ask to be like this. Why did he - why did he feel like that? When he saw men? It wasn't - it wasn't normal, it wasn't right! Those feelings were supposed to be for women, not...other men. Men were supposed to get married to wives, have children, and grow old with them. What was wrong with him? He had done such a good job keeping it hidden all those years back in...back in the homelands. There was no concept of homosexuality, of 'gay' there. And it had been for a long time here, too. Only recently had these people started to come out of the woodwork.

Why did it have to be like this? What would the rest of them think when they found out? His credibility, his reputation, everything, it would all be ruined. He'd be a faggot just like the rest of them, a perverted, fallen Fable corrupted by the mundies. And Snow, God, Snow. She'd never forgive him. He knew she never would. All because of something he couldn't help. It felt as if his chest was folding in on itself, the weight of his chest nearly crushing him.

Spinning on his heel, he kicks a trash can next to him with a loud snarl. It clatters to the ground with a loud crash, its top flying off and spilling trash everywhere. He screams, and stomps on the trash can hard enough to put a dent into the metal. And then he does it again. Again, again, and again. It's barely recognizable by the end of his blitz. The only sound that remains is the sound of his breaths, ragged and heavy, interrupted intermittently by a shaky curse word or two.

The ride home is sickeningly quiet. This driver doesn't turn on his radio, and even the bar lights have begun to go out. Time seems to move too fast, and before he can get a chance to compose himself, he's back at the building. He throws a bill at the driver and exits the cab. The night air no longer feels fresh on his skin - now it feels cold and bitter, numbing his hands and face. He makes his way to the building quickly, letting himself in the same door he left through. There's no one on the stairs the whole way up, and it was probably for the best. He wasn't sure he had the constitution to speak to someone right now.

The walls of his apartment seem taller than usual as he lets himself in, throwing his coat on the table before dropping himself weakly onto his usual seat. The blue neon lights from outside filter softly through his window as he sits quietly, staring into space.

His hands are still shaking, no matter how much he tries to calm them.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little half baked, I apologize. It's something I've been working on for a few months now on-and-off, and I just wasn't sure what else to do with it. I'd like to continue the thread of gay Bigby someday, but I dunno.
> 
> It was nice to write something non-porn, though, for once.


End file.
